


Nihility

by kryptic



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Metaphysical Dream Sex, Other, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:35:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kryptic/pseuds/kryptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Void, drowning is a choice.  Make it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nihility

**Author's Note:**

> (One of) my rp group's resident Outsider has a headcanon that Emily was conceived by, you guessed it, everyone's favorite neutral whalegod. That gave rise to this brief and entirely plotless fic, which I was always sort of going to write in some capacity, even years before this game existed, when my thoughts were of my own Polynesian god of the sea instead.

There is no child.  She prays, pleads.  Kneels at an altar where she has no business kneeling, where the roughness of the stone scratches at the neat black fabric of her suit.  Her eyes are squeezed shut and her fingers are clutching at the fragment of bone, bone that Sokolov himself had said would call him.  She looks up, searches the violet fabric for some sign of his presence.

Searches.

Searches.

Nothing.

As she expected.  The natural philosopher has never seen even a shadow of the deity in his life.  Something in her heart sinks, and she regrets ever coming here.  If the Overseers knew she was at the business of consulting demons in the dark…

But when she turns, leaving behind her token as a sign of goodwill and brushing off her knees to steal back into the empty grandeur of the tower that has been prepared for her, a fleeting lick of shadow salutes her.  Bright eyes in the dark.

And there is a storm that night.

* * *

 

She wakes into a dream with the chill of a phantom touch on her throat.  For a moment, she thinks it is the crash of wind against the tower that has woken her, but that cannot be true.  There is no gravity here, no matter, but there are waves, waves everywhere, ebbing and flowing and overlapping above her head.  Her fingers curl into the firmament, her back is bare and smooth against substance that is more magic than reality.  The empress remembers the old adage as the stars circle above her head.  Don’t look down.

And she is all too willing.

Air does not exist here, and just as well, because she would not use it.  Her lungs constrict as ripples of warmth and pleasure crawl their way from the soles of her feet to the insides of her thighs, up her stomach and through her arms and fingers and into her neck, her nose, the tip of her tongue.  And there is a shadow in the shape of a man, or a man in the shape of a shadow.  He watches her with a thin face and piercing eyes, eyes from which is there is no turning away.

And she does not.

Then there are lips on her throat, but that can’t be, because there is a shadow across her mouth and over her eyes and on her palms and the insides of her wrists and elbows, under her knees and between her toes and across her waist.  There is the sound of the sea in her ears, and the tide never stops flowing, both without and within her, and she is part of it.  There is a shadow in her mouth, between her teeth, across her cheeks.  And it _moves_ against her.  Expands to fill the spaces her body leaves.  He stirs.  As if molded by his will, she spreads her legs and winds them around his back, digs them into the dimples at the base of his spine.  She tips her head back and sighs and _wants_ him.

He hears her.  He is in her mind and in her body, ringing in her head and tracing the contours of her form, playing in her thoughts with childlike wonder.  He embraces her with arms unbreakable and _takes_ her, surges into her with the power of a raging tide.  And he is soft and soothing, giant and miraculous.  He towers over her like a tidal wave and strikes both fear and wonder into her soul.  And she has not drawn breath for an eternity.

That is when he calls her name.

His voice is a storm, the creaking of wood in the arms of the ocean as a ship is torn asunder, the spatter of rain against stone walls.  She cannot remember sensation before his touch, sight before his darkness.  He makes love to her for a thousand years.

At last, the breaking, the shifting.  Seafoam crashes and crawls up her spine.  Her arms wind around shoulders made of cool flesh and calm, clear water.  His bones are polished ivory, his blood is seawater, his skin is obsidian and basalt.  He fills her mouth and her womb with the tang of oil and fish blood, and she drinks it in, leans up and forms her body against his and curls her fingers into the unyielding, polished rock that is his flesh.  Her thighs flex around him and draw him in close, stomach against stomach, a desire more base than animal need.  Force of nature. She _yearns_ , opening her mouth to him and letting him pour his being into her, and she cries out and swallows every drop.

She tenses when he is about to leave her, when he slithers from her body and she swims in a mess of sweat and salt and ecstasy.  She extends a hand.  Her fingers tangle into the coarse seaweed that may pass for hair and draw him back to her, smooth over the sculpted angles of his jaw and neck that can only be sensed, never seen.  She turns, twists and settles over him, leans down and presses warm flesh against cool.  His smile is felt against the pad of her palm, a gap and the sparkle of teeth in the immaculate surface of his face.  And it is dark.  And she cannot see him.  But she keeps her eyes open as she bends and searches to find lips that taste of starlight and the sea.


End file.
